


Preferential Treatment

by craple



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Breakfast, M/M, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:59:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Can you define favouritism to me, Will?" asks Doctor Lecter one morning, over a cup of steaming black coffee and an empty platter that smells strongly of honey and cheese.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Preferential Treatment

**Author's Note:**

> for [this prompt](hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/1375.html?thread=121951#cmt121951): "Anything with a possessive Hannibal, please. I don't care if it's fluffy/creepy/funny just please give me Hannibal being possessive over Will.
> 
> Bonus points if you can work Jack in because I love him."
> 
> uh, yeah, i hope you like this? it's like, very subtle though, but okay.

"Can you define favouritism to me, Will?" asks Doctor Lecter one morning, over a cup of steaming black coffee and an empty platter that smells strongly of honey and cheese.

Yesterday, the kind doctor had brought a bowl of tomato bisque that, for some reason, still managed to be warm and unearthly delicious with an orange juice to follow. The day before it had been omelet and beacons, and before _that_ a dozen buttered-toast and fresh fruits.

Will is not sure why Doctor Lecter keeps bringing him food – three days straight, now – but he is not going to refuse free food, especially when it is delicious. It also helps to keep the fatigue at bay, during and after lecture or during and after case, so he doesn't ask.

"Inclination, disposition, tendency," Will replies absently. "Preferring one over another. Sexism, racism, heterosexism; an act of discrimination." Crumbs of the waffle he's had are scattered across the plate covered in honey. Will chases them around with his fork.

Doctor Lecter hums quietly, a simple confirmation that he's heard but neither agrees nor disagrees with what Will says. He continues to cut his waffle to slivers, swiping the pierced piece against the remains of honey there, before chewing them in a manner Will would have thought deliberate if he is not so used with the act to know it's a habit.

The curtains have been pulled open wider than usual, today. There is a dog sitting on the porch under the chair Will usually sits at, another sniffing around Doctor Lecter's car out of curiosity while the rest are playing with each other in the kitchen.

Will knows there are at least two of them in his bedroom, sneaking under the covers of his bed when he left to greet Doctor Lecter at the door, and the image of it loosens something in his chest, tight and knotted and heavy, nothing but fondness curling in his stomach.

"The practice of giving unfair preferential treatment to a person at the expense of another," says Doctor Lecter, in agreement, this time. "Also the state or condition of being the competitor thought most likely to win in a competition."

"We're not in a competition." Will says, to which Doctor Lecter looks up, with a smile.

"Oh, but we are." He chews around a piece of waffle, tongue flicking out as if to chase the taste that lingers on his lips. "Human beings compete with each other every day, whether they are conscious of it or not. Some of us simply cannot see it. Animals, however, are not so subtle in their approach."

"Predatisms." Will says. Lecter smiles, a tad bit wider. "Just so. But that is not what I was trying to talk to you about." Doctor Lecter puts his cutlery down, neatly on either side of his plate.

The plate is not empty, what with a quarter piece of the waffle still there, uncut and untouched by the honey, just like the other day when Doctor Lecter brought toasts and did not finish.

"Doctor Bloom called me last night, wondering how you've been holding up. I told her you're fine, and we chatted a little bit, until she mentioned – with a slight jealousy in her tone, I might add – that you favour me more than her."

Lecter cocks his head to the side, nothing but curiosity in the way his posture holds, and Will realises it's more about the sudden stiffening of Will's entire being rather than the statement itself. "Do you, Will?"

Will leans back on his chair, legs stretching forward under the table, his ankles brushing against Doctor Lecter's socks-clad feet (because _Hannibal_ , Will learns, is nothing but polite). "Is this a competition between you and Doctor Bloom, then." It's not a question.

Doctor Lecter blinks, tilts his head some more. It reminds Will strongly of Winston, the dog he recently fostered, when he is intrigued by the new food Will feeds him with when they run out of raw meat.

"Perhaps," says Doctor Lecter. "We are simply curious of which one of us you are more comfortable with, under Uncle Jack's request." His lips are curled, not quite a smile but not quite a grimace either; not unpleasant but certainly not pleased.

"I am not your patient," Will almost-snaps, but refrains. "Nor am I Doctor Bloom's." They are colleague, nothing more. She has no rights to psychoanalyse him, neither does Lecter, as a matter of fact, but he has done so, whether Will approves or not.

"No, you are not." Lecter says. "But the question remains."

The silence following that statement is not, surprisingly, thick. It is not uncomfortable the way Will predicts it to be, because Will is looking at Lecter straight in the eye – like he did, the first time they met – and there is only curiosity in Lecter's eyes, written on Lecter's face, and Will does not have the stomach to be snappish when Lecter's food has molded him so well.

He can still feel it, at the moment; the sweet-sour taste of pure honey he poured on his warm-crisp waffle, the richness of the chocolate syrup he suspects Lecter made by himself draped over strawberries and cherries and grapes; the warmth of his black coffee in his throat, the taste of it thick on the tip of his tongue.

Will feels more relaxed like this, with Doctor Lecter's food and Doctor Lecter himself, sitting across him on the chair his dog oft sleeps at, than he does when he is asleep.

His mind is not churning and buzzing, recreating scenarios of various murder cases he's had and is currently working at, and there is no blood at the corner of his peripheral with Doctor Lecter demanding his focus by presence alone. He does not tell Doctor Lecter this.

Instead, he tells him, "Alana is one of the few people I can call a friend." He does not look away from the depth of Lecter's eyes. "But I cannot tell her everything – no, more like, I am not comfortable, should I tell her everything." Will finally looks down, at the fork he is holding. "She is not my paddle."

"No," Hannibal Lecter says. "She's not." And when Will looks up – Hannibal Lecter smiles.

* * *

Crawford barely calls Alana anymore, now. It is Hannibal he calls for help and Hannibal he asks to take care of Will, when he cannot, when Will does not want him to.

Doctor Lecter's smile is sharp and predatory, smug around the edges, but it makes Will more comfortable than he'd like to admit, every time.

Jack Crawford watches everything proceeds and wisely does not say anything at all.


End file.
